Freedom Is Just Another Word
by illuminata79
Summary: Mick is trying to escape the aftermath of his most recent loss but finds you can't run from your own past forever. (Rated M for some moderate violence and a lot of swearing.)
1. On the Run

The title is taken from Janis Joplin's "Me and Bobby McGee" - the whole line goes "Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose", which, I think, sums up Mick's situation after losing Nell and leaving France quite well.

However, I have chosen a different title song for this chapter. Mick is not in Paris and it isn't winter, but the mood of the song is certainly how he's feeling.

This story also comes with a nod to John Irving whose latest novel taught me there was that rather effective technique called a duck-under in wrestling. I don't have any interest in wrestling, but this one kind of fascinated me and came in handy for the narrative.

**The Pogues – Paris St. Germain**

_The City of Light is dimmed now by the winter,  
No gut full of wine could keep out this frost  
We'll shiver and sigh by the ice on the river  
Ask the dull heavens, "The hell have we lost?"_

_My heart's too empty to speak true of sorrow  
What's dust is but dust and as dust shall remain  
If only I could, I would make it tomorrow,  
I'd make it tomorrow where you'd live again_

_I'll lay myself down in the mist and the heather  
I'll lay myself down and I'll wait for your call  
The bell rings last orders, we're walking together  
While the boulevards burn and crumble and fall  
The boulevards burn and crumble and fall_

_My heart's too empty to speak true of sorrow  
What's dust is but dust and as dust shall we fall  
The bell rings last orders, we're walking together  
While the boulevards burn and crumble and fall  
The boulevards burn and crumble and fall  
The boulevards burn and crumble and fall_

* * *

An upbeat waltz echoed through the cobbled side street, issuing from an open door below a wooden sign swinging softly in the evening breeze. It depicted a fat, artlessly painted owl, blinking sleepily, and the words _Le Hibou_ in fancifully squiggly letters.

"Is this the famous place?" I asked Jérémie, cocking my head towards the inviting trapezoid of light spilling on the pavement from the doorway of the dance hall which he'd said was a must-see in his native city of Le Havre.

"Yup!" he confirmed cheerfully, walking inside with the swagger and the broad grin that made girls everywhere swoon by the dozen.

I exchanged a look with Giovanni, the taciturn Italian, who rolled his eyes at our French mate's showy behaviour as he often did, and we, too, ventured into the crowded room that was much larger than it had appeared from outside.

I was glad that the music was loud enough to drown out most of the conversation around us. Hearing French spoken somewhere always conjured up very mixed feelings.

The accent that was common around here sounded jarringly wrong to my ears that were used to the Breton variety, but at the same time made it a little less painful to hear and speak the idiom of what would have been my adopted home country.

Still, I didn't want to hear or speak much of the language tonight. I wanted to have a good time, without being reminded of anything I had no wish to think about.

Jérémie had disappeared instantly and was nowhere to be seen until I glimpsed him much later on the other side of the room with a pretty redhead in his arms. Giovanni, who didn't care much for dancing, slunk off towards the bar right away, while I stood by the door for a moment to watch people dancing and flirting and laughing, feeling hollow and lonely among all those happy-looking couples despite my determination to have fun tonight.

A sassy blonde in a clinging cherry-red polka-dot dress appeared out of nowhere, greeted me with a breathless _"Salut, chéri"_ and brashly grabbed my hands to drag me into the whirling throng.

I let her.

She had nothing at all in common with my lovely Nell except for their mother tongue, but that was just as well.

I washed away the memories of the brown-haired girl who should have shared my life with a lot of cheap red wine and a few large shots of some kind of brandy they made around here and danced with the blond girl all evening long. We spoke little, and when she had turned her back on me in a huff because I had declined her saucy suggestion that she might take me home with her, I realized I hadn't even asked for her name.

I couldn't say I hadn't enjoyed the evening so far, though, having managed to forget for a short while. Red Polka-Dot Dress had been a good dancer, moving nimbly along with me, and the band was really swell, playing a fine mix of quick and slow numbers.

After the girl had abandoned me – for a very tall, very fair-haired sailor who looked Dutch or German – I had leaned languidly on the bar, knocking back some more drinks with Giovanni, who didn't seem to have moved one inch all evening long, until the band stopped playing and a flushed and ruffled Jérémie joined us.

Giovanni's surly face had, as usual, brightened up more and more as he consumed his wine, and he suddenly broke into a high-pitched girlish giggling when he detected red lipstick smudged on the collar of Jérémie's shirt.

I didn't know what was funnier, Jérémie's disheveled state or Giovanni's silly tittering. It was probably the combination of both that sent me into a fit of laughter which made my whole body shake and the muscles in my belly hurt. Tears were streaming down my face, and I wiped them away, laughing even more.

The hiccup I had afterwards had the other two in stitches on our way back. It was quite late, but the night was balmy, with a full yellow moon shining in a starry summer sky that already began to get lighter at the horizon, and we were taking our time, all three of us rather unsteady on our feet.

By the time we came back to where the _Arcadia_ was moored, the day had truly dawned, and we were still rather keyed up and giddy.

"Giovanni, why is it that you never dance?" Jérémie asked curiously as we were getting on board, slurring his words a bit.

"No good at dancing", he growled. "Never learned it properly."

"Then you'll learn it now", I said, grinning.

"Nah, it's too late. What do you say – you can't teach a new step to an old fart?"

"Teach an old _dog_ a new _trick",_ I said. "You're not old, and I'll teach you."

Jérémie sniggered as Giovanni shook his head vehemently.

"Come on, don't be a coward. I'll show you."

"I'm sure as hell not gonna dance with a _man",_ Giovanni protested.

"Sorry we haven't got any girls handy right now. You know they say it's bad luck to have women on board of a ship", I said. "You do know the rhythm of a waltz, don't you – one-two-three, one-two-three. It's fairly easy. Look!"

I demonstrated the steps, took his hands, placed one of them on my shoulder, and, humming one of the tunes the band had played earlier, waltzed the sinewy Italian across the foredeck.

Jérémie seemed about to burst with laughter as he watched us, crumpling to the ground in a quivering heap.

Giovanni, for his part, didn't find anything funny about my attempts to teach him.

On the contrary – he got raving mad. As I was trying to whirl him round once more, he suddenly ducked his head, grabbed me by the arms and did something quick and efficient, a cruel yank or twist – I couldn't say what exactly had happened.

All I knew was that I felt something in my left upper arm or shoulder give with an ugly little crack. Next, I found myself spinning out of control and crash, bad shoulder first, onto the deck. The metal floor slammed into me with a force that left me winded and stunned for a moment or two.

The return of my breath brought a sweeping rush of pain and a swelling rage at the man who had inflicted it on me. I jumped to my feet and went after him despite my useless left arm. I wanted to deck that jerk, injured shoulder or not.

I lunged at him in a blind fury, but he dodged me easily and kept taunting me, making sure he stayed out of my reach, just so. Obviously this fight was not yet over for him either.

I yelled at him, called him all the names that came to mind, hoping I could make him neglect his defence just for the split second I'd need.

He was prancing back and forth, eyes glittering, cursing me in Italian. A particularly nasty wave of pain shot through my shoulder, and I grabbed at it with the other hand, stumbling backwards, on to a large dark rectangle in the pale blue floor of the deck.

"Look out!" Jérémie shouted, sounding genuinely alarmed.

Too late.

There was no ground beneath my feet.

With an inarticulate scream, I fell, at least seven or eight feet, hitting an uneven surface, kind of solid but not really hard. It yielded a bit under my weight as I shifted, trying to figure out where I was, sorting my limbs. I had been lucky insofar as I had landed on my good side and my legs and right arm were perfectly fine when I moved them gingerly.

My eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. I found myself on top of a heap of sacks containing grain or something and realized I must have plummeted through an open load hatch into the cargo hold. I had been quite lucky that the sacks had broken my fall and I had suffered no further damage. The violent pain in my shoulder was awful enough, and the fact that I couldn't move the arm that looked strangely twisted. I knew this was bad.

Carefully cradling my arm to protect it from getting all too jarred if I bumped into something, I made my way towards the hatchway in the semi-darkness and slowly heaved myself up the steep metal steps. Feeling a little wobbly in the knees, I didn't dare climb out on the deck, so I just used my right hand to pull myself up far enough to stick my head over the edge.

Jérémie and Giovanni were hollering at each other in various languages. The Frenchman was accusing the Italian of having killed me, and it looked as if they would be at each other's throats in a matter of seconds.

"Cut the crap, and fucking _help _me, you pair of morons! I'm not _dead!"_ I called out, dropping back down on one of the bottom steps when the pain flared up like a hundred knives being driven into my upper torso.

Both their heads flew around in relief. The two idiots let go of each other and came hurrying down the hatchway, almost knocking me over once more in their haste.

I couldn't resist knuckling Giovanni on the head with my good hand. "You didn't kill me, you idiot, but you separated my fucking shoulder. What the hell did you do?"

He mumbled something about wrestling and that he wanted to take a closer look at the injury.

I shook my head vehemently and shouted at him to keep his goddamn paws to himself when he stretched out his hand anyway.

An angry voice bellowed at us from the back of the hold, and lights flicked on overhead. "Have you lost your minds to make such a racket at this time of morning? Cut it out this minute! And anyway, what the heck are you _doing_ down here?"

Crawley, the second mate, had appeared from behind a stack of large boxes with a clipboard in his hand and was looking at us in pure bewilderment.

"Erm, _sorry,_ sir", Giovanni hurried to say. "I was trying to teach Carpenter some wrestling tricks."

"Down here?"

"Uh, no, of course not. We were on deck, and something went wrong, and Carpenter …"

"Don't tell me you were so pissed that you fell through the hatch!" Crawley growled at me. "I swear I'd fire all three of you on the spot if we weren't so short of staff already. Now go to bed or make yourselves useful – but go!" Crawley muttered something unintelligible to himself and turned away, about to leave.

"Um, I think Carpenter's injured, sir", Jérémie spoke up. "I think someone should take a look at his arm."

I had meanwhile sunk down on the heap of sacks once more, doubled over, clutching at the shoulder that was giving me flaming hell now. All the wine and liquor in my system certainly didn't help matters either, making me feel even sicker.

Crawley gave an enervated groan and came over, eyes narrowed. "Well", he said grumpily, "that arm does look funny to me. I'd normally say you ought to go see a doctor, but …" He thumped one of the boxes angrily with his fist before he swiveled back to face us. "Dammit, you fools! We ain't got time for that kind of shit. We're supposed to be sailing at nine!"

He pushed his cap high up on his head to scratch his sandy crew cut thoughtfully, then his eyes lit up. Retreating towards the back of the large cluttered space, he bellowed, "Jonah! _Jonah! _You there?"

Jonah's dark face and broad shoulders showed above the top of a large sea chest. "What's up, Crawl?" he asked.

Crawley pointed at me wordlessly, and Jonah scrutinized me for a moment with a keen eye and nodded, mumbling, "Just a dislocated shoulder. No problem. I'll take care of it."

"What?_ You?!"_ I knew he was the go-to guy for the small injuries that happened on board all the time, but I couldn't imagine what he was going to do about this. Didn't want to imagine it, in fact.

"Calm down. I've done this before. Been a medic in the army for a while during the war."

I wasn't entirely convinced and looked around frantically for anyone to intervene, but they all seemed to bow to Jonah's presumable medical knowledge.

"Lie down here", he ordered sternly, pointing at the surface of an oblong crate about six feet long and three feet high. "This is perfect. And take off your shirt."

"What? Why? What are you …" My voice keeled over, sounding slightly panicky now. In fact, I was more than just a little scared.

_Oh well, it can't get much worse,_ I thought resignedly and fumbled to unbutton my shirt. Jonah helped me get it off, and I lay down cautiously, watching warily as he gave further orders to the others.

"You two hold him down." Jonah nodded at Crawley and the Frenchman. "And you, Spaghetti, you go and get some bandages." Giovanni, who appeared a bit green around the gills, scampered off eagerly.

"I don't need to be held down", I declared indignantly. "I promise I won't fall off or anything."

Jonah dismissed my protest with a little lopsided grin that fanned my fears even more. "Believe me, we'll need those two." To my big surprise, he took off his boots and said in this strangely authoritative voice, "At my command – one, two …"

At "three", Crawley flung himself across my legs to pin them down while Jonah swiftly set one heel in my armpit, seized my left hand and forearm and pulled. I drew a sharp breath.

The pain reached a white-hot apex that made me scream and lash out at Jérémie who tried in vain to hold down my other arm, hitting him hard in the chest so he staggered backward, swearing in French.

With a distinctive sickening "clunk", the joint slipped back into the socket, and the pain abated a little. I cursed Jonah rudely nevertheless, particularly when he carefully moved my arm to and fro to check if it was really back where it belonged. He simply laughed it off and looked around for Giovanni.

"Where the hell has Spaghetti gone off to?" he wondered aloud. "Gotta finish up here! Don't move", he told me as an afterthought when he saw me shifting and trying to sit up.

Finally, Giovanni came stumbling in, carrying a battered tin first-aid box.

Jonah quickly found what he needed and set about his work with precise, efficient movements that made clear that he hadn't just been boasting about his medical experience earlier.

Giovanni started chortling again, and Jérémie chimed in, when they saw what he was doing – wrapping a long bandage around my shoulder, arm and chest to immobilize the joint.

Jérémie nudged Giovanni and giggled, "'E's lookin' a bit like the mummy from that movie, isn't 'e?" Both of them doubled over with laughter.

Furious, I struggled to get up. I wanted to slap them both.

"Hey, whatcha think you're doin', Carpenter?" Jonah scolded me. "You stay where you are or I'll tie that other arm to your side, too! You've had enough action to last a few days! And you two dimwits - get the fuck out of here!"

"Yes, piss off, you assholes! I'm not a fucking freak show!" I shouted after them as they scrambled up the hatchway, pushing myself up on my good elbow.

"Whoa, mate. _Don't move yet._ Calm yourself." Jonah patted my right shoulder, completed his task by placing my forearm in a sling and helped me put my shirt back on, slipping it over my intact arm and draping it loosely around the damaged shoulder.

Of course, I found myself the laughingstock of the crew because of my silly drink-induced accident, the dramatic-looking sling and the bandage that made it impossible to wear my shirt buttoned up properly so that every little breeze sent it fluttering off my shoulder. Everyone had fun ribbing me, especially during the meals when Giovanni or Jonah had to help me handle my food.

After a while, the novelty of it wore off, and they left me alone, mostly lounging on my bunk, utterly bored, occasionally taking a swig from the bottle of rum I kept stashed away among my things, or uselessly pacing the decks, exercising the sailor's right to grouse and getting on people's nerves in the process.

Jonah removed the bandage after a few days, murmuring approvingly to himself as he examined the shoulder. "Looks alright. Can you move it?"

I tried, very cautiously. It was painful but possible.

"Well then", he said, obviously satisfied with what he saw, "looks like it's healing well." He decided the sling would be enough now, which was a bit of a relief but didn't particularly widen my scope of activities.

When he dismissed me, I went out on deck, leaning against the base of a derrick. My eyes fixed on the horizon, I put a somewhat bent cigarette between my lips and dug my new lighter from my pocket.

I was glad I'd bought the thing a couple of weeks ago. At least I didn't have to ask anyone to light up my smoke - striking a match would have been quite a challenge one-handed, as were so many other trivial little things.

I detested having to rely on others to assist me with cutting my meat or tying my shoelaces. To say nothing of the fags. It just wasn't the same if I didn't roll them myself, although Giovanni did his best, feeling he needed to make up for having administered that fatal duck-under.

Gingerly massaging my still-throbbing shoulder, I listened to my own thoughts consciously for the first time in fifteen months.

Being unable to work, condemned to idleness, I had been forced to wind down for the first time since I had left France in a hurry.

Something like this accident had been bound to happen, what with all the drinking and the inebriated skirmishes I kept getting myself into to vent the explosive mix of hurt and anger and confusion that was smoldering within me.

My reputation aboard the _Arcadia,_ as it had been on the numerous ships before her, was that of a fair enough worker, with a decent amount of brains and a good deal of experience, but I was also considered a bit of a troublemaker, easily infuriated and never afraid of picking a fight, especially when there was alcohol involved, which was the case more often than not.

It was basically a miracle that I had survived so far without getting seriously hurt or thrown into jail.

* * *

I had sailed out of Brest aboard the _Veronica,_ a Spanish freighter headed for South Africa.

She was the first in a string of ships from all over the world I was going to work on during the next year and more, zigzagging around the world on an uncharted course, never staying on any one vessel for long.

Twice, I got fired.

The first time it was for a violent fight with the asshole of a third mate who had found Nell's photo among my things. One day, I had come into my cabin to catch him leering at the picture he must have found under my pillow. Instead of putting it down and backing off, he kept making lewd, appraising remarks about her looks. I finally lost my temper when he called her "a bit of a country bumpkin", adding with a frivolous grin that "she must be good in bed, then. Country girls often are. All that nature and all those animals to watch, and to learn from."

I had wiped the smirk off his face with a single well-placed punch that smashed his cheekbone and told him afterwards, when he lay on the ground, whimpering in pain, "She's _dead_, you fucking idiot!" I couldn't keep from stressing my point with a hard kick in the ribs, not bothering to listen to his belated, whined apologies. I had simply left him lying there, bleeding and moaning.

Of course it had been the end of my employment aboard the _Celeste, _but while I was sorry later about kicking him when he was already down, I have never regretted my impulse to defend Nell's honour. No salacious moron would desecrate my sweet girl's memory and go unpunished.

I kept the picture tucked into my wallet after that and hardly ever brought it out again.

The other time I got kicked out for insubordination. It didn't matter to the rum-swigging geezer who called himself captain of the _Étoile _that it had been me, plus the boatswain, who had prevented the small freighter from colliding with a fishing boat off the southwest coast of Portugal. We had disobeyed his orders to hold course when we saw the tiny boat wouldn't manage to get out of our way quickly enough. Disobedience had no place in his rigid little world, so we had to go.

I didn't mind leaving either ship. I'd have looked for another job soon anyway.

I had made a habit of moving on once my current ship reached our destination, never giving a reason unless someone asked me to; then I'd cite bad working conditions or pitiful pay or tyrant officers.

The truth was that I wanted to avoid making friends with anyone. I was simply unable to bear too much closeness, and I hardly let on anything about myself, even managing to keep up my guard quite well when I was blind drunk, which happened a lot.

Seeking constant change also served to keep my mind from beginning to wander, as it happens frequently when your work and your surroundings have become a familiar routine that doesn't require your constant full attention. I volunteered for the most demanding and the most difficult jobs just to make sure my mind was occupied and I wouldn't be able to start brooding.

At sea, I spent the evenings with my companions despite my reluctance to form any closer bonds, playing cards, sharing drinks and raucous jokes, doing anything not to be alone with my thoughts until I was tired enough to sleep.

Shore leave was a different matter. I tried to numb the guilt and grief eating away at my soul with exuberant partying in those frenzied nights on the town.

Had I used to be the oddball who could be counted on to excuse himself from the tavern after the second round to enjoy a bit of solitude, I now became famous as the one who'd always be the last to leave in the wee hours of the morning, moving on to the next bar when one of them closed down for as long as possible, having way too many drinks, laughing way too loud, dancing with girls in tarty outfits I normally wouldn't have touched with a ten-foot pole.

I danced with those nameless, faceless dames to forget the girl I'd never actually danced with - Nell and I had not gone out much, as the locals weren't looking favourably on our relationship and a bunch of boys from the village were keen on trying to rough up that stranger who had dared to take one of their own.

I drank so wouldn't miss my lovely Nellie so badly.

She wouldn't have approved, I knew. She had hated when I got drunk, which didn't happen a lot, but now I found a few glasses of something strong helped ease my misery, temporarily at least.

After a while, I got quite used to the heavy drinking and didn't even have those dreadful hangovers any more, those mornings when I awoke with a splitting head and the surreal feeling of not knowing where I was. Not even knowing who I was.

In a way, I had what I had once wanted: complete freedom. No attachment to anyone, no expectations to fulfill, nobody and nothing to consider when I made a decision, no commitments to make.

Nothing but a bunch of memories of those I had loved, and lost.

Memories that hurt – not just the bad ones; it was remembering the happy times that tore me to pieces more than anything, so I tried, more or less successfully, not to touch upon any of them.

I had come to find in those erratic months of sailing around the world that being on my own, all alone, free of all the ties that bind, was not what I wanted after all.

Yet I felt it was all I could be now. I didn't have the strength to love and lose again. I figured I would get used to my solitary life eventually, if I learned to let go of what had been instead of forcefully drowning it out with too much drink and too much false gaiety.

Trying so hard to run away from the ghosts of all that had been taken from me, I had managed to lose the last thing I'd still had.

Myself.

I had turned into a person I sometimes had a hard time recognizing.

In fact, I despised the booze-guzzling, foul-mouthed, irritable sad sack I had become, the thin, hardened face and jaded eyes looking back at me from the mirror when I shaved.

Now, temporarily deprived of the ability to fill my empty days with hard work, thrown back to myself, I felt a strange relief at no longer struggling to keep up frantic activity in order to busy my hands and my mind so I wouldn't sense, or think about, the big black hole that was my grieving, desolate soul.

Slowly drawing on my cigarette, I finally admitted to myself that I was indeed tired of it all, especially the woozy half-hungover lightheadedness of the mornings after having got sloshed once more, the bruises and twisted limbs and fat lips sustained in the umpteenth pub fight.

I was sick to death of permanently fleeing silence and introspection, of all the pretend raucousness, of the show I made of flirting and dancing, of jostling and brawling.

It hadn't helped get over Nell, not really. It had only delayed the grief for a while.

I vowed to stop drinking, or at least to go easy on the hard stuff, before I accidentally killed myself or ended up with a knife between my ribs.

A soft drizzle had begun to fall and was now starting to make my clothes feel clammy.

Flicking my cigarette butt over the rail, I turned and went inside, where I bumped sideways into Crawley.

"Jeez, can't you … oh, it's you, Carpenter!. How's that shoulder doing? Hope I didn't hurt you, and sorry if I did."

"It's alright, that was my good arm", I reassured him, although the collision had rattled the other shoulder rather harshly.

"Fine. Good to see you here, by the way. I wanted to have a word with you. Jonah told me you were out of that bandage now", Crawley said, "and I thought we could put you on kitchen duty while you're recuperating. Joachim can take over for you on deck meanwhile."

I was sure he could. Joachim was a bear of a man, broad and strong as an ox, a German ex-boxer who looked ridiculously huge when he was at work in the small galley next to Andy, the scrawny cook. I wasn't quite as sure about my own part in Crawley's suggestion. I wouldn't mind going back to work as best I could, but I voiced some concerns about how much use I could be with my damaged arm.

"At least give it a try, will you?" Crawley said brusquely. "You can be quite a pain in the ass when you've got nothing to do."

"I know", I said with a rueful grin that made Crawley laugh.

I tried to make the best of my new job. I hated most of it – the steamy, smelly, unbearably hot, cramped little space was particularly awful in the sweltering tropical heat we were cruising through on our long way to Australia – but I didn't complain and even learned a few things that I guessed might come in handy one day. Andy was quite impressed how much I actually managed to accomplish while encumbered by the sling and the injury and kept admonishing me not to overexert myself.

However, my stint as a sous-chef was cut short by another stupid accident. A huge bowl of potatoes I had spent almost a whole miserable hour peeling was threatening to slide off the countertop when a violent wave rocked the ship. I flung out my hand to steady it and managed to push it to the back of the counter, next to the stove. Andy had a large pot of soup simmering there, and the rolling of the ship made the boiling liquid splash out, right across my hand.

At first, I tried to play it down, dreading another period of forced idleness, but it hurt like hell, and of course Andy immediately detected the blistering, reddened back of my right hand and sent me off to have Jonah take care of me.

I bore the teasing and the sneers with dignity, to everyone's surprise. They had reckoned with me ranting and raving and threatening to smash people's faces, but I didn't see any point in behaving like that any longer.

I even laughed with the rest of them when Jonah suggested he'd be happy to feed me now that both of my arms or hands were somewhat out of order. "Oh yes, you'd all love that, wouldn't you? No way!" I declared, insisting that I was well able to hold a fork with my maltreated hand.

On the third day after the soup incident, Crawley poked his head into the crew's sleeping quarters where I was perched on my bunk, trying to kill time. I was so desperately bored by now that I had borrowed Jack O'Reilly's battered pocket bible, for want of anything else to read.

Crawley guffawed when he saw the thick black volume in my hand. "Sorry to disturb your bid for sainthood, Carpenter, but I could use your help."

My ears pricked up hopefully at the prospect of something to do, and I dropped the book carelessly on the folded blanket I was sitting on.

"Have you got a neat handwriting?"

"Um … yes, I guess I do, if I try hard", I said. "Not sure how neat it will be right now, though." I glanced meaningfully at my hand that was still wrapped in Jonah's gauze bandage.

"Well, it needn't be pretty, only legible. If you can hold a pen properly, that'll be good enough. We've got a horrible backlog of paperwork. I haven't got the time, and Ranston was supposed to help me but now he's out with the flu, so I thought maybe you …"

I didn't think twice. The work itself was boring stuff, mostly sorting and filing papers, and copying scribbled notes into the official logbook, but it gave my days some purpose, and it reminded me pleasantly of how I used to do Grandpa's bookkeeping.

What was more, working behind the closed door of Crawley's office granted me some time and space to be alone and to make up my mind how I wanted to go on with my life.

I was beginning to feel an increasing need for peace and quiet, although I wasn't sure where to find it or even where to search.

Maybe I'd simply collect my back pay when we arrived in Sydney and rent a room there for a fortnight or a month or whatever it took until my shoulder had properly mended. Buy some time to re-establish who I was and what I wanted.


	2. Travelling Light

Once more, after conjuring up Rosie and her story, Vaya Con Dios and their evocative music - that always makes me think of slightly seedy, smoky port taverns and vagabond sailors and transient love affairs - have inspired a chapter in Mick's life.**  
**

**Vaya Con Dios – Travelling Light**

_Come on handsome  
Put a quarter in that thing again  
It don't matter  
If the song is the same_

_Pull me closer  
You and I have nothing to explain  
Storm is threatening  
Shelter awhile from the rain_

_'Cos tonight the wind is blowin'  
And the sea is running high  
All you troubles little darling  
Let them drift with the tide  
There's a full moon above us  
Shining out so bright  
Why worry about tomorrow?  
You're young and you're travelling light_

_Come on sailor  
Put in a quarter in that thing again  
It don't matter  
If it's always the same_

_Hold me closer  
You and I may never meet again  
Maybe somewhere  
Down old memory lane_

_'Cos tonight the wind is blowin'  
And the sea is running high  
All you troubles little darling  
Let them drift with the tide  
There's a full moon above us  
Shining out so bright  
Why worry about tomorrow?  
You're young and you're travelling light_

* * *

I took my leave from the _Arcadia_ when we arrived in Sydney on a cool but sunny June afternoon. I had decided to do as I had planned and allow myself a bit of a break.

I had been to Australia before in the course of my random travels around the globe but not in Sydney. It might actually be nice to play the tourist for a while, I thought as I made my way through the vast harbour area, admiring the majestic new Harbour Bridge.

But first of all I'd have to find a place to stay, and to drop off my belongings. It wasn't much that I carried with me, not more than what fit into a big duffel bag, but it grew heavy nevertheless as I was walking the streets, and my shoulder was putting up a fierce protest, too.

Eventually, I found an okay-looking tavern called the _Mermaid_ not far from the waterfront that also rented out rooms. The taproom was already half full at that early time with two waitresses busily serving guests.

The pleasant-faced woman of perhaps forty-five years who was tending the bar greeted me amicably, with a sympathetic look at my arm in the sling and my cumbersome bag.

"Looking for a room, young man? Back from sea?"

"Yes and yes. And can I also have something to eat, please? I'm starving."

Her eyes danced as she laughed. "'Course you can. How long are you staying? Just the one night?"

"I'm not quite sure yet", I confessed, and she gave me a quizzical look but didn't comment, just told me the price for the night and politely asked me to pay in advance before she pointed out the way to the upstairs room.

It was small, sparsely furnished, a little draughty, and clean, and it was all mine. Having shared sleeping quarters with a bunch of other men for way over a year, this was heaven.

I dropped my bag on the floor by the bed, sat down and got out Nell's photo. I had bought a leather frame for her picture a while ago to protect it from damage, but I had never dared keep it out in the open for others to see, not after the incident on the _Celeste._

Nobody would gawk at her here, nobody would make crude comments on her looks and other things. I'd have her for myself.

I pressed the small brown frame to my heart for a moment and placed it carefully on the low nightstand.

Sometimes I still couldn't grasp I wouldn't be going back one day to find her still there, waiting for me.

I was sure I'd never stop feeling that way.

I was sure no woman would ever be able to take her place.

That's not to say I had led a monk's life since I left France.

I certainly wasn't proud of it, but there had been women – not as often as most of the other sailors had them, but once in a while, I had felt the needs that arise in a healthy and lonesome young man from time to time and had sought refuge and satisfaction in a willing female body's warm embrace.

The first time I had done it, with some easy girl in a Spanish port town, both of us pretty drunk, I had fled from the room the minute I'd pulled up my pants, had hurried back to the ship and silently implored Nell's innocent smiling face to forgive me. I had hated myself for what I'd done. It had felt like I had betrayed her.

Later, I had usually spent the rest of the night with the woman if she let me, enjoying the physical closeness while it lasted, but in the recent months I had declined most of the implicit or explicit offers I'd got from women in bars or at a dance or in the streets.

Those nights filled with passion but devoid of love always left a stale aftertaste and disgust with myself that outweighed the short-lived relief they gave me.

Now I kissed my fingertips and touched Nellie's face in the photo before I went downstairs to have my supper.

It wasn't long until two attractive, shapely girls in plain but rather figure-hugging dresses showed up at my small table.

"Hello, handsome", the taller of the two said.

"Hi there." I hoped they'd go away if I remained monosyllabic.

"All alone tonight?"

"Uh-huh."

The girl looked at her companion and raised an eyebrow. "You're not much of a talker, are you?" she said cockily. "Do you have a name at least?"

"Mick", I said grudgingly and kept shoveling food into my mouth.

"Mick", the girl repeated. "I'm Betty, and this is Dee."

"That's short for Dinah", giggled her petite blond friend.

I made some noncommittal sound, but they weren't easily discouraged.

Betty slipped on the chair next to mine and drew a finger along my left upper arm, stopping at the sling. "What happened to your arm, beautiful stranger?"

"Had a little accident", I replied. When both of them kept looking at me expectantly, I deigned to add, "Back on the ship where I worked. Dislocated the shoulder."

"Ouchies! That sounds awful, poor darling. Shall I kiss it better?" Betty chirped and was already leaning into me.

I dropped my fork with a clatter. "Stop that, will you?" I said firmly, moving away from her.

She gave me an incredulous sulky look and pouted. Her companion asked waspishly, "What's wrong with you, stranger? She's just being nice!"

"I have no idea what the two of you are up to, but I'm pretty sure it's not what I want", I said. It came out sounding more peeved than I actually was, but I didn't care.

"What _is_ it you want?" asked Betty pertly, cocking her head. She had apparently recovered quickly from the brush-off.

"Eat my dinner in peace", I retorted.

She made a grimace of exaggerated disbelief and didn't budge.

"Alone", I elaborated, just so biting back the tetchy "Shove off!" that was on the tip of my tongue.

"Are these two pestering you, Mister?" a voice said from behind. I looked over my shoulder and recognized the friendly middle-aged barmaid. "Shush, girls. Get on someone else's nerves."

Dee and Betty both pulled a face but got up and joined a table of sailors who were more than happy to welcome them in their midst.

"Sorry they hit on you", the bar lady said with an apologetic smile. "They're nice enough girls, but they just don't take no for an answer. It was quite obvious you weren't interested."

"Thanks for saving me", I replied gratefully. She merely winked at me with a wry grin and went back to work.

Once I had finished eating, I decided to hit the sack early and went upstairs. I was feeling rather tired.

But the desired rest eluded me. I lay on the bed for hours, but sleep just wouldn't come.

When I was still wide awake at half past ten, I got up again, put my clothes back on and went downstairs. Maybe a little nightcap would help me settle down.

The barmaid smiled her nice smile once more when she saw me reappearing. I sat down on one of the high bar stools and spent the next hour perched there, nursing my pint, watching the crowd.

A gramophone was blaring popular hits, there was a good deal of boozed singing, and I spied Dee and Betty trying to dance with two of their sailors in the narrow space between the tables. I was glad to see they were too occupied to bother me again.

I hadn't paid much attention to the music so far; it had blended in with the background noise of song and laughter and chatter, but when the first tinkling notes of a piano morphed into a melody I knew, it was like a kick in the stomach. I set down my freshly refilled glass so hard that it spilled over.

_The Very Thought of You._

Rosie. The gramophone in her room. The orchestra of the _Black Cat,_ our favourite dance hall in Portland. The night we had been voted best dancing couple, just a few days before she'd told me she was pregnant.

The crowded, noisy tavern, the thick fog of cigarette fumes and the odour of perspiring bodies and alcohol became unbearably oppressive all of a sudden.

I slid off my stool and quickly made my way to the side door I'd glimpsed earlier, tearing it open to find myself in a small backyard surrounded by high brick walls, overgrown with weeds and cluttered with garbage cans and various kinds of debris. It was dank and a bit smelly, but there was fresh air nevertheless, and privacy.

I took deep breaths as I leaned against the grimy wall and scraps of the song wafted through the door I had only half closed behind me.

_The mere idea of you, the longing here for you  
You'll never know how slow the moments go till I'm near to you_

I had never paid much attention to the lyrics when Rosie and I were dancing to that song, but now these lines seemed to mock me.

I was never again going to be near the woman I longed for, not in this life.

How infantile my bitterness about the break-up with Rosie had been in hindsight. She had betrayed me and I'd rightfully dumped her for it. So what? It was what happened all the time, no big deal, nothing to be so terribly heartbroken about. After all we had both walked away from it alive and more or less well, and I might not have met Nell if it hadn't been for all that had happened before.

_I see your face in every flower  
Your eyes in stars above  
It's just the thought of you  
The very thought of you, my love_

The thought of my love, the thought I had tried to suppress for so long, was coming back with a vengeance in this dreary little quadrangle behind the _Mermaid_.

After so many months on the run from my past, I couldn't stem the flow of emotions and memories any more, and all the pent-up grief and guilt and loneliness hit me with the brutal force of a hurricane, hit me so hard I couldn't even cry.

I stood rooted to the spot, between a large overflowing trash can and a heap of disused fruit crates, my good arm folded over the one in the sling, firmly holding on to myself.

I murmured her name into the chilly night, repeating it over and over as if it was the only word I was able to utter.

Suddenly a strip of light illuminated half of the dismal backyard and startled me out of my rigor, making me jump.

This in turn startled the barmaid, who had opened the back door to throw out some rubbish. She gave a soft surprised "Oh!", clapping a hand to her chest.

"So there you are", she added. "I was wondering where you'd gone off to. How long have you been standing there in the cold without a coat on? You're looking all frozen, and it's way past midnight."

"I'm alright", I said hoarsely, fumbling in my pocket for a cigarette.

She wasn't convinced. "I don't believe you are. You're certainly not looking the part", she observed. "Need another drink?"

I shook my head without a word. The times when I had eased my woes with the help of liquor were over.

"Don't you want to come inside? I was going to lock up here. It's been a long enough day. Oh, and I just realized I didn't ask for your name when you first arrived. I'm Mary, by the way."

"That was my grandma's name", I found myself blurting out, like a child, and to my horror, childish tears began to prick beneath my eyelids.

I looked away and closed my eyes, mouth tightly set, the hand in my pocket shredding my last cigarette to pieces. I wanted to avoid her seeing me cry by all means.

She reached out and simply laid a small, strong hand on my arm, without stepping closer, without saying anything.

This sincere, wordless gesture ripped off the mask I had worn for the world ever since I boarded the _Veronica._ Nobody had touched me like this in what seemed like ages, and it was what made me let go of all restraint and caution. I gripped her hand, way too hard, but she didn't complain or move, only put her other hand over mine reassuringly.

A raw, primal sob racked my body, then another, and the dam broke.

My head bent low over our entwined hands, I wept, shed all those tears I had denied myself since Nell had died. It was, of course, my lost love whom I cried for the most, but it was also Rosie's betrayal and our unborn child I was weeping for, and my grandparents, my parents, my sisters, the friends I'd met and lost or abandoned along the way. I cried for passed-up chances at happiness and reconciliation, for the places I had loved and had wanted to be my home, and for the hopeful bright-eyed dreamer I had once been.

I didn't notice the onset of a wintry rain, didn't even react when a gush of cold water spurting from a broken drainpipe splashed on my back and spattered Mary's face with icy droplets. She wiped them off with her sleeve and gently urged me inside.

"Now let's get you upstairs to dry you off. You're shivering", she said, put her arm around my waist and walked me up the narrow stairway after she'd carefully locked the back door.

I let her, wiping off the tears that were beginning to dry on my cheeks as I went.

The air in my room was chilly when I opened the door, and Mary made a soft clucking noise of disapproval.

"You're going to catch your death in there", she said. "I'll get you a hot-water bottle. You'll be freezing otherwise."

I could only nod, my throat still choked, but her unobtrusive, circumspect manner moved me immensely.

She gave the room a quick habitual once-over before turning to leave and stopped dead in her tracks when she noticed something that had entirely escaped my distracted attention.

"Hang on, what on earth is _that?"_ She strode over to the bed below the window. Rain water had apparently seeped in through some cracks and was dripping off the narrow windowsill right on the bed below.

The practical part of my mind noticed the damage and vaguely wondered what was to be done about it, but I was too preoccupied to take any action.

"Oh, _damn_. These drainpipes are a disgrace, and so are those oafs who were supposed to fix them. You can't possibly sleep in here, the duvet's soaked. And so are your pajamas. Look." She held up the now-soggy pants I'd thrown on the bed earlier, wrinkling her nose.

"Well then … I'd have given you another room but they're both taken. So why don't you come over with me? It'll be cosy and warm, I've got a little fire going in my room. Of course I have a _sofa_ you can sleep on", she added when she saw my puzzled expression.

"Sure", I said, rubbing my sore, puffy eyes, feeling all worn out now that I seemed to have wept all the tears I'd had in me.

Feeling a million years old, I slipped Nellie's picture into my pocket and picked up my bag.

Mary led the way to the other side of the corridor. She unlocked a door to the right of the staircase that opened into a small but comfy room with a tiny stove in a corner giving off a nice warmth. She had me sit on the sofa right by the stove and helped me get out of the sling and take off my shirt and singlet with deliberate, competent movements, careful to avoid anything that might have hurt my shoulder. It was quite clear that she wasn't doing this for the first time.

A sleek black cat hopped on the armrest of the sofa and sniffed my hand a little warily, scrutinizing me with very green eyes. "Hey there", I murmured, cautiously tickling him under the chin.

Mary had meanwhile fetched a towel and proceeded to dry me down despite my initial protest that I could do it myself.

I had to admit that it felt good to be tended to like this, and I closed my eyes with a strange little sensation in my chest that I came to recognize as a wistful sort of happiness.

I recalled how Grandma had fussed about me when I'd appeared on her doorstep, sopping wet, the day I'd run away from home.

In a way, Mary's ministrations gave me the same lovely feeling of belonging, although there was nothing going on between us and I was certain I'd never see her again once I left Sydney.

But for the moment, I was at home, kind of.

Mary went on to hang my clothes on a wall hook by the heater to dry. I pulled the towel closer around my shoulders and stroked the silky head of the cat who had obviously decided I was a friend and cuddled up to me on the seat, purring away like a little engine.

A curse came from behind the folding screen where Mary was presently rummaging. She reappeared, pink-cheeked, and glared fiercely at my furry new friend. "Septimus, you horrible little beast! I'm going to kick you out in the street to eat mice and rats if you keep puking everywhere! No more chicken scraps and cream for you! We'll see how you'll like that!"

Next thing I knew she was turning up the duvet on the large dark wooden bed. "Get in", she told me with an inviting gesture.

When I hesitated, she repeated, "Take off your pants and get in there. That cat threw up on the spare quilt you were supposed to get." She shook her head in exasperation and gave Septimus, who of course remained unfazed in that majestic way cats have about them, another dirty look. To me, she said, "Don't look at me like that. There's no need to be bashful, I don't expect you to do anything except curl up and sleep. There's enough space for both of us. We won't even touch. Oh, and you can wear this if you want."

She had dug some faded green pajamas from her closet and tossed them onto the bed. I didn't ask whose they were. Or had once been.

Somewhat relieved, I got up obediently and crawled into the bed in the green pajamas that smelled a little musty, like they had been kept at the back of that closet for years.

I didn't care. The duvet was heavy and soft and warm after all and carried a pleasant faint trace of lavender, the mattress was rather new and firm, nothing like the sagging, lumpy things I'd become used to. A small sigh escaped me as I snuggled in.

When Mary slipped in little later, I was already half asleep.

* * *

In the end, I spent almost two full months in Sydney.

First I did a bit of sightseeing or simply roamed the city streets with no particular aim, often going where there was music. Strains of jazz standards wafting from a bar, jolly folk songs played in an Irish pub with most of the guests dancing, even the solemn beauty of an ancient hymn heard through an open church door attracted me magically, as did the old man fiddling outside the entrance of the Royal Botanic Gardens. In a way, music of any sort helped soothe my mind.

I stayed on at the _Mermaid,_ sleeping on Mary's sofa after she'd washed the quilt Septimus had spoiled. She wouldn't hear of taking any money for my lodging with her. "That can wait until you've actually got a room to pay for." It would take a while for the water damage in the other room to be attended to, she explained. She was waiting for her brother, an accomplished handyman, to take care of the matter so it would get done properly this time.

Neither of us seemed to mind sharing quarters. On the contrary.

There was no sexual attraction between us - at least not on my side; if Mary felt any different, she never let it show – but her trust and care did a lot for me. Without knowing it, she helped me get over all that had happened. Finally, the tempest inside me began to calm down.

One day I went to see a doctor about my shoulder. He was rather impressed by Jonah's skill. "I haven't often seen a dislocated shoulder set so well under similar circumstances. Usually we see some more, and often permanent, damage done if there's a non-specialist are involved."

To my great relief, I was allowed to do away with the sling and to start using the arm as normally as possible, albeit cautiously.

I whistled softly to myself as I walked back to the _Mermaid, _hands in my pockets. My shoulder was still achy and stiff, but the first tentative movements hadn't worsened the pain as long as I didn't try to raise the arm above shoulder level. Reassured by the doctor's assessment, I gathered that my range of motion would improve significantly during the next weeks and decided to give myself until end of the next month before I'd start looking for another job aboard a ship.

Mary was happy to see me freed from the bothersome sling, and when I told her I was going to prolong my stay, she promptly came up with an idea I liked instantly. "Fred's going to be finished with the repairs in your room by end of the week, and I could use some assistance in the evenings. I reckon waiting tables would be difficult with your arm, but I guess you should be able to help me behind the bar. In turn you can have the room and any meals and drinks you want for free. What do you think?"

"It's a deal", I said, and for the next six weeks I drew beers and polished glasses behind the counter, chatted with the regulars and tried to keep Dee and Betty at bay, who apparently still hadn't given up on me. Playing the barman made for a nice change from the daily grind on a ship, even if I was beginning to feel the call of the ocean again and was determined to leave by end of the month.

But for the moment, everything was alright.

* * *

One night, I jerked awake in the pitch dark, shaken by a dream in which I had visited Nell's grave only to meet her brother there who told me that she wasn't dead at all but had moved far away with her husband and child. He said I couldn't go and see her because that would cause her death and she was finished with me anyway because I'd abandoned her and certainly wouldn't be happy to have me around.

"No!" I shouted, a drawn-out cry that resounded all through the graveyard and the village.

The first thing I became aware of when I came to was Mary's reassuring touch on my cheek, and her voice in my ear. "Wake up, Mick. You're having a nightmare."

Still tangled in that confused parallel world, feeling betrayed and bereft, I uttered a miserable little whimper.

"Was it such a bad dream?" she asked.

"Yes", I whispered, surprised to find her kneeling in front of the sofa in a shapeless pale pink flannel nightgown. The floor lamp in the corner cast a dim golden glow over the room and softened her solemn features.

"Sorry for waking you, but you were moaning something awful", she said, watching me intently, "and you look like you've just seen a ghost. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No", I said in a breaking voice. "Yes. Not about the nightmare … but I think I want to talk about why I'm here. I guess I'm not gonna go back to sleep anyway." I sat up, jiggling my shoulders a bit to relax the tension in my muscles.

Mary threw on her frayed dressing gown and sat beside me, tucking up her legs and pushing her feet under the edge of my quilt to keep them warm. "Well, then. I'm all ears."

I told her all about my life, about losing my dad and leaving my childhood home, running away from Missouri and working with my grandpa, about the shipwreck and selling the house, about all the other jobs I'd held, about Eliza and Rosie and my sweet Nell, and about the many nights following my departure from France on which I had found myself questioning the very sense of my own existence once the effect of the drink had worn off in the earliest hours of morning.

She simply listened, silent, attentive. She asked no questions and made no comments, but when I needed a break after speaking of Nell and our engagement and how I had come back to learn she had taken her own life, she held me, cradling my head to her chest like a mother would her small child's, stroking my hair, allowing me to let it all out in another rush of tears, her own eyes moist with compassion.

It was odd to think that this woman, a complete stranger until less than a month ago, now knew far more about me than any other living person in the world, but there was something about her that made me trust her, made me feel safe, loved even. She seemed to understand me in a way nobody had in a long while.

"I knew you were running from something the moment you walked in", she said as I had finished. "And that it wasn't the usual things, like the police or a pissed-off creditor or a cuckolded husband."

I stared at her, perplexed. "How did you …"

"It's not hard to see", she said. "You may be travelling light" – she pointed at my duffel bag on the floor that she knew now to hold all that was mine in this world – "but it was plain to me when I first saw you that you were carrying a different sort of baggage. It was all in your eyes, and in the way you, a healthy, young, good-looking sailor, wouldn't even take a closer look at Dee and Betty."

"I've no interest in girls like them. Or any girls, for that matter."

"You don't have to just yet."

I laughed mirthlessly and shook my head. "I don't think I want that any more _at all._ Perhaps I'm better off alone."

"That's what you believe now, or make yourself believe", she said earnestly. "It needn't be soon, you know, but eventually you'll come across that lady who'll stay with you and make you happy. Give yourself some time to get over your darling Nell. One day you'll find your perfect woman. You shouldn't stay alone, fine specimen that you are."

I smiled indulgently. I just knew that wasn't going to happen, but I didn't want to disturb her lovely little fantasy. I'd have loved to believe it could come true.

* * *

The next day, I moved back into my newly habitable room. Neither Mary nor me ever mentioned anything I'd told her that night, and she never let on anything about her own history. We simply worked hand in hand behind the bar, made companionable small talk and shared some jokes.

I started searching for a new job, inquiring with shipping companies or directly with crew members if I came across a vessel that had just docked. There were quite a lot of vacancies, but somehow my appetite for long voyages had diminished considerably, and I turned down all the offers I got.

Until, one night, a runty old sailor came limping bandy-legged into the _Mermaid,_ clambered up on a bar stool and ordered pint after pint, interspersed with shots of rum. After the fourth pint, he became rather chatty and began waxing lyrical about the beauties of the Solomon Sea, the islands of which were his favourite spot to spend a few days of leave.

His ship, a freight steamer called _Helen of Troy, _operated a regular shuttle line between Sydney and Port Moresby, and when I showed some interest in this, he said he was sure he could get me on board and would arrange for an interview with the captain the next morning if I wanted to.

I didn't make much of his drunken promise, but the next morning at half past eight, he rang Mary's doorbell and asked for me.

The interview was short and sweet. We came to an agreement quickly and would be sailing in two days' time.

On my last evening at the _Mermaid, _Mary put on a record after we had closed down and brought out a bottle of an expensive-looking French red, very unusual for a small humble port bar like this.

I didn't ask where she'd got it. I had a feeling it had to do with the previous owner of the green pajamas.

We shared the fine claret, mostly in silence, listening to the music, both of us a little saddened in the face of my imminent departure.

When her favourite tune, _Goodnight My Love, _came on, she got up and pulled me to my feet. I led her in a slow, affectionate dance on the cracked reddish floor tiles, between the rickety tables and mismatched chairs. With the last notes, she took my face in her hands and kissed me, her lips lingering on my mouth for a moment afterwards, then she pulled back, her hands resting lightly on my waist, giving me an intense look, and broke away, turning around to take some deep breaths, her fingers clutched around the back of a chair.

I didn't quite know what to say or do, but she recovered quickly and reached for my hands again. "I'll miss you when you're gone", she said. "I've got so used to you being there. But I know I can't keep you around forever. It's been great to have you here, though."

"I'm very glad I came here, Mary. Thanks for everything. Take care."

"You take care, too. I'm not sure we'll ever meet again, but maybe you can spare a thought or a prayer for that old bat at the _Mermaid _occasionally." She blinked as if she was about to tear up.

"I will", I promised. "Keep an eye on Dee and Betty, lest they frighten away your customers."

She smiled, shiny-eyed, and I bade her goodnight.

When I left early in the morning after a very short night's sleep, she remained in her room. She had warned me before that she couldn't abide tearful goodbyes and therefore wouldn't be around to see me off.

But when I looked back one last time, I saw a small hand waving from at an upstairs window and a black cat silhouetted against the white curtains.

I waved back and smiled.

And turned the corner.


End file.
